Alexander Marwood set an even longer time limit on their return. When the fire was eventually brought under control, he did not know whether to be happy that his inn survived or feel hurt because his prophecy did not, and so he opted for a relieved misery by way of compromise. He hated plays, he loathed players and he was revolted by the sight of the debris all around him. This was his reward for the lunacy of permitting irresponsible actors to hire his property. He twitched his way across to Lawrence Firethorn and issued his death sentence.
‘Westfield’s Men will never play here again!’
‘But we have an agreement,’ said Firethorn.
‘It has been revoked.’
‘Silence, you gibbering nonentity!’
‘That is my final word, sir.’
‘And so it shall be!’ snarled Firethorn, pulling out his dagger and raising it to strike. ‘Die, you venomous little toad! Perish, you vermin!’
‘Hold!’ shouted Nicholas, interposing himself between the two men and easing Marwood away. ‘Do not be too hasty here,’ he said in soothing tones. ‘This has been highly unfortunate and we regret it as much as you, but the Queen’s Head still stands. It can be restored to its former glory. And we have been spared to continue our work.’
‘Not in my inn, Master Bracewell.’
Firethorn’s dagger glinted. ‘Remember our contract.’
‘It was the bane of my life.’
‘A contract is a contract.’
‘No, Master Firethorn!’ The landlord was adamant. ‘You were entitled to stage your plays in my yard, not to burn down my premises. Behold your accursed work, sir!’ Marwood made a histrionic gesture with his arm that was worthy of the actor-manager himself. ‘The Devil has no need to ride through London when Westfield’s Men may do his work for him. Talk not to me of our contract. It has gone up in smoke!’
London was a rapidly expanding community that had long since pushed out beyond the high city walls that had defined and defended it since Roman times. Suburbs thickened both north and south of the Thames to make the capital ten times larger than Norwich, its nearest English rival. In size and importance, it was the equal of any city in Europe with a bustle and energy that were beyond compare. The sounds and smells of London spread for miles in every direction. It was much more than a geographical phenomenon. Whether serving as a home, market, port or seat of government, the city was wholly and triumphantly alive.
There was no better place to observe the variety and vitality of the place than at Ludgate, one of the mighty portals that pierced the wall and allowed citizens and visitors alike to stream in and out beneath the raised portcullis. The gate had recently been rebuilt and the decorative statues of Queen Elizabeth, King Lud and his two sons now looked down from renovated perches upon the scene of activity below. Carts, coaches and drays rumbled into the city. The clack of hooves was never ending. Children played recklessly amid the traffic. Dogs sniffed and fought and yelped. Beggars lurked to solicit newcomers or to importune those taking their leave. Friends met to converse. A knot of spectators gathered to watch a malefactor being whipped by a beadle. Darker punishments were being endured by those who were incarcerated in Ludgate prison and who thrust their imploring arms through barred windows in search of food and drink. Birds flapped and swooped.
The man who sat astride his horse just outside the gate observed it all with a shrewd eye. His build and bearing suggested a yeoman but his doublet and hose were closer to those worn by a city gentleman. There was fur trim around his hat. He was of medium height and his craggy face bore the imprint of at least thirty eventful years. His raven-black beard was well barbered enough to hint at vanity and he stroked it with ruminative care. The faint air of a countryman seemed to linger only to be dispelled by the knowing sophistication of a Londoner.
He had been there since dawn, when the market traders streamed into the city with their produce to set up their stalls. Nobody who passed through Ludgate during a long morning escaped his scrutiny, and the man hardly moved from his position of vantage, except to dismount from time to time in order to stretch his legs. Even when he relieved himself against a wall in a sheltered corner, he did not relax his surveillance. As noon was proclaimed by a jangling choir of bells, he was back in the saddle, raking the latest batch of arrivals with a stern gaze, then clicking his tongue in irritation when he did not find the face he so earnestly sought.
Could he have been mistaken? It was impossible to think that his vigilance had been at fault, but the sharpest eyes were useless if trained on the wrong location. Supposing his quarry had come along Holborn in order to enter the city through Newgate? Supposing he had struck even farther north and passed beneath the crenellations of Aldersgate or even Cripplegate? He discounted these alternatives almost as soon as he considered them. Someone who had ridden so far already would not needlessly add to the length of his journey. Most travellers approaching from the south-west would come by way of Westminster to Charing Cross then continue along the Strand until it merged into Fleet Street. That made Ludgate the only logical point of access.
So where was he? Had some accident detained or diverted him? The man’s information came from a reliable source and it had placed his quarry at Colnbrook on the previous night. Could it take so long to cover a distance of fifteen miles? Someone who was so eager to reach London would surely not be delayed. Unless he had some forewarning of what lay ahead. Was his absence due to a timely premonition? Did he sense what awaited him in the shadow of Ludgate? Had fear sent him by a more anonymous route into the city?
The anxious sentry was still trying to assimilate this new possibility when his long wait came to an end. Another bevy of travellers, some twenty or so, came trotting towards him. They were hot and dusty from a long ride but their discomfort was forgotten in the excitement of their arrival. For most of them, it was clear, this was a first and overwhelming visit to the capital. These were provincial gapers. Eyes that had bulged at the myriad wonders of Westminster now widened in awe as the cathedral of St Paul’s rose up above the wall ahead of them like a mountain. The experience was at once exhilarating and intimidating.
He spotted his prey at once. The youth was in the middle of the cavalcade, using his companions as a protective ring, transfixed by what he saw and riding along in a kind of reverential daze. Short, plump and pale, he had plain features that were centred on a snub nose. His skin was soft, his face clean-shaven, his eyebrows thick and unsightly. He wore buff jerkin and hose with a cap pulled down over his close-cropped hair. The man put him around seventeen and knew that this was his designated target. Everyone else in the company was much older and the youth fitted in every detail the description he had been sent.
As the leaders went in through Ludgate, the man turned his own horse to join the rear of the group. There were fresh cries of astonishment as the travellers came face-to-face with the true heart of the city, with its mad jumble of houses, inns, churches and civic buildings, and with the happy turmoil of its streets. Voices lost in the din, they picked their way through the seething mass of bodies that converged on St Paul’s churchyard. By the time they reached Watling Street, they started to disperse to their destinations, some heading up towards Cheapside, others cutting down towards the river, a few turning off into Cordwainer Street to make a first purchase from the shoemakers.
The youth stayed with the rump of the party as it bore due east into Candlewick Street. Riding alongside him was a big, well-dressed man of middle years on a chestnut mare. Unlike the others, he was evidently a seasoned traveller who had only joined the company for the safety it offered. Patently at ease in London, he showed an avuncular concern for the youth and pointed out each new item of interest. As further members of the group peeled away, only a handful were left to turn at last into Gracechurch Street. Still trailing at a discreet distance, the man with the black beard watched the youth and his obliging friend swing into the yard of the Queen’s Head. Though the fire on the previous day had closed part of the building down, the taproom was as busy and noisy as ever.